


Liar

by Oroburos69



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oroburos69/pseuds/Oroburos69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red John never lets a victim live. Not until Patrick Jane. 'His Mister Jane,' some part of him whispers anxiously. 'His.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from the Mentalist Kink Meme at LiveJournal.  
> "Red John/Jane. Possessiveness/jealousy. ^.^"

“Hush, mister Jane,” he whispered. “Hush.”

The room was too small. The walls were too close. The ceiling was too low.

“No need to talk now,” he murmured, cruel delight coloring his words. He traced Jane’s lips, pulled taut over the ball gag. “No need.” He brushed his hand through Jane’s hair, nails scraping over his scalp, hard enough to sting.

Red John’s voice is low and unaccented. Or rather, he has a mid-west American accent.

Jane couldn’t see his face. It was dark, he was wearing a mask, there wasn’t enough light, and Jane couldn’t see Red John’s goddamn face. His vision kept blurring, weaving, shifting. He blinked to clear his eyes, but it only worked for a moment.

Red John bit into Jane’s shoulder, a piercing pain that cleared the dizziness for a moment. Jane tried to pull away, his toes scrabbling uselessly on the mud coated floor. He swayed on the thin chain, the metal handcuffs digging into his wrists.

The sharp squeal of metal on metal almost drowned the words Red John mumbled, his rotten breath drawing stabbing pains from the bleeding wound on his shoulder. “…mister Jane, I think I like you better when you’re quiet.”

It seems he carries a grudge.

Jane’s dizziness returned and his head lolled limply to the side, his muscle control weak. He stared blindly into the candle flames burning relentlessly in front of wet brick, warm light glinting off the cool moisture that dripped down the walls.

Strong hands gripped his hips, holding Jane still. Red John lapped at the holes in Jane’s neck, his swallowing obscenely loud.

Red John’s hands are rough. He either works with them for a living, or for his hobbies.

Jane shivered, trying to pull away from the invading tongue. Hands stopped him, pushing him hard against the wall, rough mortar grinding into his bare skin. Red John’s body followed, his jeans grinding against Jane’s legs, chest pressed across his hard enough that Jane could feel Red John’s heart beating.

“You look so vulnerable,” he sighed happily, licking up the welling blood. “and alone.”

His obsession with me is of a different bent than I originally believed.

Jane’s tongue pushed helplessly against the heavy black rubber of the gag. He tried to deny Red John, to say no, but the gag pressed against his teeth from the inside, heavy and muting.

Jane knows what words mean, how important they are. He needs to talk. To stop this. The rubber is flavored with vanilla and the taste is cloying. It squeaks quietly against his teeth.

Red John scraped his nails down Jane’s ribs, uneven and rough and catching on his skin.

His nails are unkempt, implying that his job is not one where appearances are paramount.

Jane felt his skin opening. It hurt far out of proportion with the size of the injury and he shuddered, his breath whistling through his nose.

Warm, fetid breath steamed over Jane’s collarbone. “Just look at you,” Red John whispered, tracing his tongue under Jane’s ear, leaving the skin dripping with saliva. Red John’s throat pressed hard against Jane’s, and his words vibrated into Jane’s bones. “I could just eat you right up.”

His teeth closed around Jane’s earlobe, biting down hard. Jane struggled weakly, a pained whine escaping around the gag. He hated himself for that small weakness, for the happy little hum it elicited from Red John.

He fought to open his eyes, to memorize, to analyze.

The scattered and aimless melodies Red John hums—they’re fragments of Beethoven. The scent on his breath is putrid and foul—coffee? He is tall enough that their heads are level.

Jane’s feet barely brushed the floor.

Red John leaned back, letting Jane swing freely from the handcuffs. He used the freedom to caress Jane in a twisted mockery of affection, lingering over his chest. Jane remembered the red cut that bisects Red John’s victims, the evisceration line. Red John outlined it on his skin.

Something flickered, changing Red John’s mind, and his hands dropped down, tracing the tender skin over Jane’s hips. It was intimate, and Jane shivered with revulsion.

Jane knew where it would end, where he would end. His breath whistled from his nostrils and he closed his eyes. How—he didn’t know. He had no idea how it would happen, or if he would live through it. Jane suspected that he wouldn’t.

Red John pressed his body against Jane, his weight driving his nails into delicate skin. Jane forced his eyes open. If he lives, this has to be worth it. It has to be.

Red John is a Caucasian male, unknown hair-color.

The pressure digging into his skin increased, and Jane knew that he was bleeding there, too. He mumbled softly into the gag, trying to back away from the pain, but he was pinned against the wet brickwork.

Jane’s head rolled limply over to rest on his shoulder, his forehead nestled in the crook of Red John’s shoulder in an obscene parody of affection. Jane’s cheek pressed into the smooth knit of a ski mask. He can’t see Red John’s face.

Red John smells of sawdust, smoke and rust. He uses Old Spice to an appalling degree, however, under that is something lighter, more expensive. He is clean shaven.

Jane swallowed around the weight of the gag. It felt like it was rolling down his throat, thick layers of cartilage and muscle ripping apart under its weight, spreading open under the unrelenting, unchanging pressure. He pushed it against his teeth, holding it there, away from his throat. His tongue hurt. Jane swallowed hard, suppressing nausea.

Red John nuzzled Jane, the gesture disconcertingly warm. “I want you dead or maybe just bleeding,” he breathed into Jane’s ear. “I haven’t quite decided yet.”

He lapped at Jane’s shoulder, cleaning the blood from the bite. It’s begun to clot, and Jane felt the tacky outer layer peel away.

Red John may suffer from Rensfield syndrome.

Jane shivered, suddenly chilled as Red John knelt in front of him. He laid his hands over Jane’s hips, sliding his fingers under the elastic of his boxers. Jane closed his eyes, swallowing helplessly around the gag.

Red John is—Red John is neither old nor young. He is likely between the age of thirty and forty. He is not older than forty five, and he is not younger than thirty-five.

“I like them better when they’re breathing.” The words danced across Jane’s skin, heat followed by a chill as his breath condensed. “To take a woman to the very edge of her limits, then pull her over, fucking her as that last drop of life bleeds out of her.” Red John laughed softly, the sound hard-edged. “It’s exquisite.”

Red John is attempting to manipulate my perception of him. It’s working.

Red John stripped Jane of the last of his clothing, throwing it away carelessly. He chuckled mockingly. Jane squeezed his eyes shut. Tears welled up and tumbled free, sliding down his face. Jane suppressed them viciously, and opened his eyes.

Red John looked up, meeting Jane’s eyes. Contact made, he brushed his hand over Jane’s genitals in a deliberate caress. “Oh, pretty,” he murmured, his words echoing faintly in the dark.

Red John smiled at Jane as he held him in the palm of his hand.

Red John’s hands are clammy, cold. Circulation issues? He has a scar on his lips that only shows up when he smiles. His front teeth are crooked. His eyes are brown.

Jane instinctively tried shifting away from Red John. His movement set him swaying, the handcuffs cutting deeper into his numb wrists. He thought they might be bleeding. A warm liquid trickled down his arms and pooled in the hollow of his clavicle. He couldn’t see it.

Jane didn’t see anything, but Red John saw everything. Jane was losing.

Red John drew a knife from a leather bag set carefully on the rotten crates that held the candles. He held it lovingly, shifting the blade so it reflected candlelight in sharp lines that danced on the brick walls. Red John rested it over Jane’s groin, the edge cutting into his skin. “You’re something different,” he mused thoughtfully. “This is… novel.”

Acid boiled threateningly in the back of Jane’s throat. He swallowed convulsively. His vision blurred wildly, strips of darkness and light patterning it.

Red John brought the blade up in a single, long line, splitting skin from Jane’s groin to his sternum. The slightest bit more pressure and Jane would have been gutted like his wife had been, like his daughter had been.

The disembowelment appears to have a sexual context for Red John.

Jane worked very hard not to think about that.

Red John cut abstract patterns into Jane’s skin, sharp stripes extending out from the central line like branches from a tree. Jane held himself deathly still. He could not die here.

“But in the end, you’re just like one of those fucking sluts,” Red John said, his lips pressed against Jane in obscene open mouthed kisses. Jane thought of octopuses, tentacles and suckers. His mind jittered from panic and pain.

Red John weights approximately 190 pounds. He is moderately muscular.

Jane blinked, watching the slow blurred dance of gleaming steel revealing the red blood inside. The pain grew remote and distant, coming seconds and hours after each cut, a delayed burn. The sensations crawled inside of him, clawing their way up his throat to join the gag.

His vision grew patchy and dark and he swallowed painfully.

The knife trailed over his skin and the other hand touched him, invading more intimately than a knife ever could. Red John pushed on the skin surrounding the first and deepest cut, milking it of blood. He spread the blood over his fingers, and then used it to paint.

Jane could feel Red John’s hand groping him, his touch perfunctory, almost uninterested. Red John squeezed too tightly, a sharp pain that cut through the haze and threatened to send Jane into unconsciousness.

“Faithless,” Red John accused, his voice chilling. “You aren’t anything but a faithless, worthless, spineless coward.” He lapped up the blood from Jane’s belly button. Jane swallowed hard to keep from vomiting.

“I’ve been watching you, with those people you insist on associating with,” Red John snarled, biting the edge of Jane’s hip. His teeth met through skin and Jane whimpered faintly, trembling from the strain of not fighting.

“You are mine, do you understand me? You breathe on my sufferance alone, you live because of my mercy, you eat, sleep, and shit only because I allow you to.”

Red John dragged his bloody hands down the insides of Jane’s thighs, the blade of the knife frighteningly close to the femoral artery. Jane looked away, doing his best to catalogue the room.

There are twelve candles. Twelve apostles—twelve months—twelve zodiacs—twelve names of Surya—twelve tribes—a duodecad of candles… The room appears abandoned. Red John has not used it before. There are no windows, and it is very damp. Probably underground. The bricks are crumbling, moldering.

The blade pressed against Jane’s stomach, digging into the hollow of his hip, forcing Jane into unnatural stillness. Trickles of blood slid from the cuts on his wrists, the wounds patterning his belly. It ached and stung, but Jane didn’t dare move.

“You aren’t paying attention,” Red John snarled.

Red John flattened his free hand under Jane’s buttocks, wiping tacky, drying blood over them. Jane felt suddenly dizzy, panting breaths through his nose not giving him anywhere near enough oxygen. Red John’s fingers invaded Jane and Jane couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Jane swallowed thickly, holding down vomit, the choking taste of vanilla tainted rubber filling his mouth, invading his lungs in a hot, humid rush.

Red John was inside of him. Jane’s blood coated the other man’s teeth, staining the enamel pink.

Crooked front teeth that push inwards, especially on the left.

Jane felt the press and prod of fingers working their way inside, the painful violation as they opened, twisting within him. He tensed instinctively, fighting the painful burn of being pulled apart, of being forced.

“You’ve been chasing others, ignoring me. Working your fancy party tricks on a whole new field of rubes,” Red John said. The knife slipped, nicking Jane’s skin. “You swore that you would chase me to the ends of the earth.”

“I went to the ends of the earth and back.” His tone was mocking. “And you didn’t follow me, not even once.”

“Were you lying, mister Jane?” Red John asked. He slid the knife back an inch, scraping it on stretched skin. Jane thrashed involuntarily, jerking away, but Red John surged up, following him. The blade opened the skin, and the pressure of Red John’s relentless fingers ripped the tiny cuts wider.

“I thought I taught you last time.” Red John whispered, “that lying is wrong.”

Jane closed his eyes. His heart was beating too fast, he couldn’t breathe. The gag was blocking his air, he couldn’t breathe. He forced himself to look, to catalogue the scene. His vision was blurred. Hot liquid leaked from the corners of his eyes, dripping onto the leather cord holding the gag in place.

His clothes—he’s wearing all black, which is rather trite. They’re expensive casual wear, but he’s wearing them with work boots that are crusted on the edges with mud.

Red John lifted Jane’s leg over his shoulder, the change in position forcing Jane’s head to roll back, shifting his gaze to the arched ceiling. The new pose allowed Jane more air, his whistling panting slowing to a gentle wheeze. Some of the pressure inside him left. Jane blinked at the ceiling.

Admittedly, the mud could be from down here. But the boots are old. The clothes are a dark black, unfaded. The jeans have a crisp line down the centre. Either he doesn’t wear them often, or they’re new. Or he irons his jeans.

“So mister Jane?” Red John persisted, hooking his fingers inside Jane. “Were you lying to me?” he demanded, sliding the knife in beside his fingers.

Jane’s back arched and twisted, trying to pull away from the knife. A muffled shriek escaped the gag.

“You said you wanted me dead. That you wouldn’t stop until I was dead.” Red John’s hand didn’t move, the knife slicing deeper from Jane’s thrashing. Jane choked on the gag, tongue desperately trying to push the intrusion out, body seizing into hacking coughs. He swung wildly on the chains, new cuts forming on his wrists.

“But it’s like you aren’t even trying anymore.” Red John waited for Jane to still before he yanked the knife out, slicing more skin as he did so. Blood leaked down Jane’s thigh in a frighteningly thick stream and Jane thought abruptly that he was going to die in this room. The thought is insidious.

“The magic is gone, mister Jane,” Red John said, rising to his feet. Jane’s leg pulled up with him, stretching torn flesh and skin. Jane’s pelvis pressed against Red John’s groin, leaving him with no possible doubt as to his captor’s enjoyment of the situation.

Red John pushed Jane against the wall, relieving some of the pressure on his wrists. He dropped a gentle kiss on the bite over Jane’s shoulder, whispering, “Your oaths are worthless. You’re a liar.” He slipped his tongue between the gag and the tight skin of Jane’s lips, provoking a shudder.

Jane focused, searching for identifying marks on Red John’s face. There was nothing unique about it. Just a man’s face, covered by a ski mask.

Thin lips, strong jaw. Probably reasonably attractive under the mask.

Red John unbuttoned his jeans, freeing himself. He dropped the knife into the mud and pulled out a square packet from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth.

Brunette.

Jane closed his eyes, feeling the panic rising again, terrified enough to try and pretend that it wasn’t real. He panted harshly around the gag, mouth fuller than it had any right to be. “And if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s a filthy lying coward,” Red John whispered in his ear, running a finger over Jane’s chin.

It hurts. It really, really hurts.

Jane screamed, the sharp noise echoing in the damp air. The pain was blindingly strong, racing down his spine in agonizing waves. Distantly he felt Red John lift his other leg and slide deeper inside, every movement ratcheting up the fiercely clawing pain. Red John laughed.

“I let you live. I gave you mercy. You chose to throw that gift back in my face. This is nothing more than you deserve.” An element of rage colored Red John’s voice. Jane memorized it, locked it into his memory.

“I did this to your wife,” Red John said, suddenly calm again. “And I made your daughter watch.”

No.

Jane lost himself willingly, gratefully in the pain, the constant drip drop of water into the shallow puddles on the floor, the rough sway as he was rocked back and forth on the chains. He embraced the present, letting it ripen and bloom inside his mind until there was no room for thought of the past.

Red John’s hips jerked against his in short quick thrusts, each one another insult, another wound. Jane’s stomach rolled uncomfortably as he tried to focus on the pain, on the light, on memorizing every fucking detail of this.

He… He is a sadist. But he isn’t psychotic. He isn’t deluded, or crazy. He’s sexist, violent, and a rapist. But he isn’t crazy.

“She cried just like you,” Red John whispered like he was sharing a secret, his mouth curving into a smile as he pressed Jane against the wall, his body rigid, a fine tremor running through him. Jane’s mind ground to a stop, his eyes meeting Red John’s from inches away. Slowly, ever so slowly, a thin ridge slid down the dark iris of Red John’s eye. Behind it, a sliver of light color showed.

His eyes aren’t brown.

Red John pulled away abruptly, letting Jane swing on the handcuffs. It’s another sharp and twisted pain in an ocean of them, and Jane barely noticed when he hits the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

They’re blue.

Red John walked to the edges of the candles’ light, stripping off his blood stained clothes as he did so.

Tattoo of a snake—red, white, black. Mole on his hip, scars on his back, narrow build. Mole on the back of his neck. Scars across his belly.

Jane watched. Red John changed into fresh clothes, and stuffed the old ones into the leather bag. He picked the knife up from the floor and tucked it away with the clothes.

“I’m afraid our time is short.” Red John lifted a bottle of bleach, a crooked grin twisting his lips.

Laundry grade. Diluted, not actually dangerous in most circumstances.

Jane’s head drifted forward, unable to hold itself up anymore. The anticipation of fresh new pain made his skin quiver, twitching as he waited for—

Cold liquid poured over Jane’s head, running down his body, trailing through the cuts and bruises. The initial coolness swiftly changed to a burning itch, acid-like in his wounds. A ragged sob was choked by the gag.

The pervasive stench of bleach permeated the underground chamber. Jane tried to lift his head, but failed. Red John snapped on rubber gloves, the elastic sound loud in the silence.

“Do you think they’ll find you in time?” he asked, “I’m willing to leave it up to fate.”

I will kill you, Jane promised futilely, his eyes sliding shut again.

I will hunt you down and split you open, tear you into your broken components.

I will kill you.


	2. Chapter 2

Rigsby found him.

Jane was ghostly pale, faded streaks of red blood coating him, dripping down his wrists, his stomach, between his thighs, falling in thick and nearly dry rivers over his ankles. Lines were etched into his skin, abstract works of art, macabre patterns that left Rigsby chilled in grief, in regret, and in pity. As deaths went, Jane’s must have been horrible.

Rigsby checked the corners of the room before edging inside and holstering his gun. He turned on his radio. The sparking sound of static filled the air. “I found Jane,” he said, voice cracking before he cleared his throat. “He’s dead.”

Lisbon was quiet for a moment, and then confirmed where he was before switching to her phone to call it in. She was half way through calling for the CSU when Jane started swaying slowly, his chains creaking like Jacob Marley’s.

“Boss—” Rigsby said, interrupting Lisbon. “I—” Jane’s eyes opened, looking at him blankly. “Shit. Lisbon, you need to call an ambulance. He’s not dead,” Rigsby told her.

“He’s what?” Lisbon interrupted herself, before snapping, “Get here.” Rigsby heard her phone snap shut. “What’s his condition?”

“Bad,” Rigsby replied. “He’s looking at me… okay, he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the flashlight. Pretty sure he’s in shock. And he’s covered in blood, I think. It looks like something diluted it.” He sniffed the air before adding, “Probably bleach.”

“Shit.” Lisbon said. “Is he responding at all?”

Rigsby considered the question. “Not yet?” he answered hesitantly. “I’m going to try to get him down. His hands… they don’t look good.” They looked bone white at the tips of his fingers and a swollen purple closer to his palms.

“You sure you can move him?”

“Yeah. I think it’s mostly exposure and blood loss. He should be safe to move.” Rigsby flicked his flashlight off and hooked it onto his belt. The guttering candles provided enough light.

“Exposure? What the hell happened to him, Rigsby?” her voice rose too high, making the radio shriek.

Rigsby paused before he answered, taking in the bite marks on Jane’s shoulders, the cuts on his chest, and the blood that coursed down Jane’s legs. “I don’t think I should speculate,” he finally said. “The ambulance is on its way?”

“Yeah, Cho called it in.” Lisbon confirmed.

“Good. I’m going to get him down. Signal me when you get close.” Rigsby turned the radio to standby.

Jane looked through him. “Hey Jane,” Rigsby said, walking around the muddy boot tracks in the centre of the floor. “You okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low and quiet. It echoed softly off the brickwork.

Jane’s eyes were trying to follow Rigsby. They kept sliding away, rolling unconsciously. Rigsby smiled as reassuringly as he could. He doubted Jane could see him clearly enough to know who he was. “Yeah, it’s going to be okay,” he told Jane. Tremors shook Jane, a faint squeal of metal on metal coming from the chain that held him up.

He reached out carefully to touch Jane’s wrists, trying to see if the handcuffs were police issue. Jane flinched away, the cuffs cutting into his wrists, a fresh trail of blood running down his stained arms. Rigsby swore quietly and laid a hand on Jane’s side to steady him. He could feel the rapid beat of Jane’s heart through his ribs.

“It’s going to be okay,” he repeated softly. “Everything’s fine,” he lied.

He pulled Jane against his chest to steady him, and reached up to the handcuffs with his key. Jane tried to escape Rigsby’s grasp, twisting weakly under the weight of his arm.

The handcuff unlocked and released Jane slowly, the metal tacky with drying blood. Finally it gave, the chain sliding rapidly over the metal pipe, freeing Jane. His arms fell loosely, the sudden change in position provoking a sharp noise of protest from Jane. He slid down Rigsby’s chest, still conscious if his weak struggles were any indication.

“Come on Patrick,” he muttered awkwardly, stumbling over Jane’s first name. Jane looked crumpled and broken and very much not himself. Rigsby unlocked the second cuff and pried it from Jane’s wrist.

Jane had never seemed fragile before.

Rigsby lifted Jane carefully, and walked towards the gaping hole in the masonry where the bricks around the rotten door had crumbled into red mud. He carried the blood covered handcuffs with him, held gingerly between his fingers, as far away from Jane as he could manage and still carry both.

In the dim light of the tunnel outside, Rigsby settled to the ground, holding Jane in his lap, dropping the cuffs on the ground beside him. He ignored the blood seeping through his pants. “Everything’s going to be okay,” Rigsby said, the words losing their meaning and becoming a mantra against the misfortune that already occurred.

The gag looked too tight, thin strips of black leather cutting into the corners of Jane’s mouth and drawing his lips back into a pained grimace. Rigsby searched for a fastening at the back, and found what felt a set of brass snaps. He pulled them apart. Jane shivered, but didn’t otherwise react. Rigsby pulled gently on the gag, drawing a blank look from Jane. The emptiness of his eyes was disconcerting.

The gag was stuck behind Jane’s teeth. “Can you open your mouth?” Rigsby asked quietly, hoping Jane could understand.

Jane looked confused, but his jaw relaxed enough for Rigsby to pull the gag out. He dropped it to the side next to the handcuffs, noticing the deep indentations from Jane’s teeth. Jane relaxed with the gag gone, his shoulder pressing into Rigsby’s chest.

“Fuck, you’re cold,” Rigsby said, taking Jane’s temperature with the back of his hand. Jane was colder than the room, he noted anxiously, wondering where the rest of the team was, where the paramedics were. Rigsby shifted out of his suit jacket and draped it over Jane, ignoring the soft, pained noises Jane made when he had to move his arms. The jacket was huge on him.

Rigsby shifted the Jane so that he rested on Rigsby’s chest, holding him mostly upright. Jane was pretty damn limp now, though still conscious through some cruel trick of fate. Rigsby grabbed the radio and opened the channel again. “Boss?”

“Rigsby?” Lisbon’s voice was tight with worry. “Is Jane okay?” she questioned him.

“He’s alive,” Rigsby responded, wrapping his arm around Jane a little more tightly, trying to warm him and keep him from sliding onto the floor. “Where are the paramedics?” he asked her, watching the entrances to the tunnel.

“Working their way toward you,” Lisbon responded. “Cho and I are coming in ahead of them. We should be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Are you close to the paramedics at all?”

Jane was watching him talk, his eyes half-lidded. Rigsby ran his free hand through Jane’s hair and then regretted it when Jane pulled away from his touch. “Shhhh,” he murmured softly, “Help is coming, you’re going to be okay.”

“What?” Lisbon asked, confused.

“I’m talking to Jane,” Rigsby told her, “If you are close to them, can you get a blanket or something?” he asked. “He’s way too cold.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Lisbon spoke to someone on the outer limits of the radio’s range. It sounded like Cho. “Is Jane talking?” she asked hopefully.

“No, not yet,” Rigsby responded. Jane didn’t seem to be listening and his eyes were almost closed. Hopefully he was falling asleep.

“Oh,” Lisbon paused and for awhile the only sound was soft sputtering static. “We’ve got a blanket,” she said, and turned off her radio. A soft droning hum echoed from the handset, and Rigsby flicked it to standby.

Rigsby captured Jane’s hands in his own, warming them. Jane watched dully, and Rigsby wondered if Jane could even feel his hands—he’d spent god knows how long hanging from his wrists. Rigsby pinched the back of Jane’s hand, drawing a dull look from him. Rigsby frowned.

Jane shifted. “Wayne?”

Rigsby jolted and then looked down. Jane stared at the far wall, avoiding eye contact for the first time Rigsby could remember. “Yeah Jane?” he responded, running his hand over Jane’s back in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Jane leaned into him, blinking rapidly for a moment, ragged breath hitching.

“Red John—he—” Jane’s teeth chattered. He took a shuddering breath and continued. “He has blue eyes and white skin. I think his hair is some variation on brunette. He wore a mask, but I saw his back. He has a tattoo.”

Jane shivered and pressed his face against Rigsby’s chest. Rigsby pulled Jane a little closer, trying to share body heat. He thought, briefly, of telling Jane that he didn’t have to do this now. “What was the tattoo of?” he said instead.

“It was a snake. Red, white and black.” Jane swallowed hard and continued. “He was taller than she said. Probably over six feet rather than under. He had crooked front teeth.”

Rigsby waited, but Jane didn’t continue. “Anything else you can remember?”

“He said…” Jane muttered. His eyes were unfocused again, staring down the hallway.

Rigsby let it go. He could hear footsteps in the distance. The radio crackled.

“We’re approaching your location,” Lisbon said. Rigsby lifted his hand off of his gun, and rearranged Jane so his coat covered as much of him as possible. Jane’s legs stuck out awkwardly, long, pale, and blatantly naked.

Two flashlights lit the end of the hallway, tracking steady patterns along the brick walls.

“Rigsby?” Lisbon called, her voice echoing in the tunnel. Jane stiffened in his arms and then went limp, faking unconsciousness.

“Yeah, I’m over here,” Rigsby said. “You have a blanket?” he asked them, watching Jane. He was still shivering, eyes open in the barest of slits.

“Yes,” Cho said, walking forward, holding a thin thermal blanket. It crinkled when he unfolded it. Cho paused, looking at Jane. “Is he…?”

“Yeah,” Rigsby replied, not particularly caring what the question was. He slid one arm under Jane’s knees and lifted him up. “Come on,” he said, gesturing impatiently, “get the blanket on him.”

Cho nodded and draped the blanket over Jane from his neck down. Lisbon moved in beside him and helped tuck the edges up and under, encasing Jane in the gleaming silver sheet. She looked like she might cry. Or hit someone.

Rigsby adjusted the blanket until Jane was wrapped from his neck to his toes and then sat back down, balancing Jane across his knees. He thought he saw Jane looking out from under his eyelashes, but decided not to call him on it. If Jane didn’t want to deal with it, he didn’t have to.

“The paramedics will be here soon,” Cho said, face and voice fighting for neutrality. He sounded angry, under the forced calm. “They were having issues getting the gurney over the rubble.”

“Do you know who?” Lisbon asked, the broken look on her face fading quickly, replaced with cold fury.

“Red John,” Rigsby replied. He nodded toward the room he had found Jane in. “He was in there,” he told her. Lisbon looked at Jane for a moment, and then went into the room. Cho followed her.

It was quiet except for the muffled sound of Cho and Lisbon talking. Jane’s shivering was slowing and his eyes were open again, watching the shadows.

Another flashlight shone from the end of the hall. Rigsby saw the paramedics wheeling the stretcher down the hallway, one carrying a massive first aid kit, the other holding a flashlight. “Finally,” he muttered, waving them down.

“That’s him?” the one with the first aid kit asked briskly, opening up the red crate.

Rigsby nodded. He could feel Jane growing tense. He was pretty sure that Jane was hanging onto his shirt through the blanket, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“Can you describe how he was injured?” the one pushing the gurney asked. He pressed a leaver on the stretcher and it collapsed down to ground level.

“It looks like he was tortured,” Rigsby said, reporting like it was a crime scene and not Jane bleeding in his arms. Jane was pretending to be unconscious again. Rigsby didn’t blame him. “He was cuffed to the ceiling and took his full weight on his wrists for a few hours. He was cut up, primarily on the chest and groin, and he lost a lot of blood. There was a gag,” Rigsby nodded at the discarded rubber ball, “which was still in place when he was found. He’s too cold.”

The paramedics nodded and pulled the gurney closer to them. “Alright,” one said, “we’re going to take him now.” He looked at his partner and signaled him. He grabbed Jane’s shoulders, prepared to lift him onto the white stretcher.

Jane bucked violently, pulling away from his hand. “Whoa Jane,” Rigsby said, holding him down. “It’s okay, they’re here to help you.” Jane stared at the ceiling, his cold hands twisting Rigsby’s shirt. “Would you mind if I lift him for you?” he asked the paramedics, not looking away from Jane.

“Yeah, sure.” One of the paramedics shrugged. “Just don’t drop him,” he said, turning to dig through the first aid kit. “Do you know his blood type?”

“O positive,” Jane muttered, clinging to Rigsby like he was a lifeline. Rigsby settled him on the stretcher and dropped another blanket over him. He smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket and stepped back. Jane let go of him reluctantly, fingers losing their grip on his shirt, his arms buried under layers of blankets.

“Mind if we borrow your arm?” the paramedic asked, holding a blood pressure gauge up. Jane pulled his arm up a few inches before wincing and letting it go limp. “Right. Mind if I grab your arm?” the paramedic continued, unfazed.

“No,” Jane said.

“I’m going to talk to Lisbon and Cho,” Rigsby told Jane. “Will you be okay out here?” he asked. “I’ll ride with you to the hospital, but I need to speak with them first.”

Jane nodded distractedly, watching the paramedic take his blood pressure. His pupils were huge, making the thin rim of blue look downright unnatural. Rigsby patted him on the shoulder and walked back into the candlelit room. The scent of bleach hit him again.

“Is he awake?” Lisbon asked, her face blank. Cho was behind her, equally professional.

“Yeah,” Rigsby said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the black pipe, a thin line of metal shining where the handcuffs had worn off the rust. The scars gleamed in the faltering candle light. “Did you find anything?” he asked quietly.

“No, nothing he didn’t want us to find,” Lisbon said. “This place has been abandoned for nearly a century, he dumped bleach over everything, and we’re left with no evidence again.” She looked away from him and glared at the floor, blinking rapidly. “Is Jane okay?”

Rigsby shrugged. Okay was a word too vague to determine, but even so he thought the answer was no. “He’s hurt, I think he’s in shock, and he looks dead,” he said. Lisbon looked like he had just killed a kitten and Cho looked away. “But he’s alive, and the paramedics don’t seem too worried,” he added in half-hearted attempt at optimism.

“Did Jane…” Cho trailed off before continuing. “Did he see anything?”

“Caucasian male, blue eyes, maybe brown hair, a little over six feet, crooked front teeth and a tattoo of a snake on his back.”

Rigsby hated the vagueness of the description. In many respects, it was no better than Rosalind Harker’s.

Cho looked at Rigsby, a little surprised, because it was Jane they were talking about.

Rigsby replied with an awkward shrug. “He wore a mask. And Jane wasn’t… He’ll probably remember more later.”

Lisbon sighed. “I’ll have it added to the file anyway.”

Rigsby nodded. One of the paramedics came to the door and told him that they were ready.

“I told Jane that I would ride to the hospital with him,” Rigsby explained, making his way out, leaving Cho and Lisbon behind.

“We’ll meet you there,” Lisbon replied, looking over the crime scene again. “After the forensic team arrives,” she added, as though she needed to explain her absence. Rigsby nodded and left.

Jane was strapped down and asleep, an IV line taped to his upper arm. One of the paramedics held a clear bag over him, allowing it to drain into his veins. Jane looked like death, ghostly pale with purplish mottled skin.

“We gave him a sedative,” the paramedic holding the bag said. “He fell asleep right after.”

Rigsby nodded, unaccountably relieved. “That’s good,” he said, and took the lead.


	3. Chapter 3

“You aren’t interviewing him,” Cho informed Bosco. He leaned against the wall next to Jane’s room, clearly standing guard.

“We need the information for the case file,” Bosco replied. Behind him, Hicks shifted restlessly, looking through the window into the hospital room, lip curled in obvious disgust.

“True, but you aren’t interviewing him,” Cho repeated, his voice flat. He sent a sharp glare at Hicks.

“Look,” Rigsby told them, moving so he was between Cho and Bosco, and coincidentally, Bosco and the door. “Jane—Patrick isn’t feeling well. It’s your case, and we aren’t trying to step on any toes, but it’s really best if you leave him alone right now. If you absolutely can’t wait until tomorrow, Cho, Lisbon or I will do the interview,” he told them.

“Why can’t we do it?” Hicks asked, a trifle nervously. He glanced between Cho and the window in a slow cycle, his eyes twitching. “Dr. Asperity said he’s recovered from the anesthetic well, and he’s coherent. If he can be interviewed, then we ought to do it. Regulations demand that—”

“Fuck regulations,” Cho swore calmly, his tone mild. “Jane hates you and you hate him. You aren’t going in there without his consent.”

“What Cho means to say is—” Rigsby began before sighing in relief as Lisbon walked into the hallway. He waved her down. “Boss.”

“Rigsby,” she acknowledged, coming to stand by his side. She set her feet shoulder width apart, and tilted her head to look Bosco in the eye. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Your men are preventing me from interviewing Patrick Jane,” Bosco told her. He wavered visibly, looking at her. “He’s awake, and his doctor recommended that, if we want to talk to him, we do it in the next hour.”

“Alright, we’ll do the interview and get it back to you,” Lisbon said. She looked through the window, meeting Jane’s eyes. He looked away immediately, and she frowned.

“It’s our case,” Hicks insisted. He pointed at Jane through the glass. “We need to interview him while it’s fresh in his mind.”

“He needs to be interviewed,” Bosco said carefully, watching Cho. “If you record it, and hand it over to us in the morning, that would be perfectly acceptable. The samples are on their way to the lab?” he asked for confirmation, trying to defuse the sudden tension in the room.

“They are,” Cho confirmed. He uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs over his belt, a moderately less aggressive posture.

“Right,” Bosco said, looking at the three of them, his gaze lingering on Lisbon. “I’ll expect the record in the morning.” He turned to leave, nudging Hicks with his elbow as he did so. Hicks looked confused, but followed his lead.

Rigsby relaxed slightly, returning to Cho’s side. Lisbon faced them, her hands shoved deep into her pockets and shoulders curving in protectively. She was looking past them, into the room. Neither of them mentioned it. “So who’s going to do it?” he asked.

Lisbon shook herself, her eyes returning to them. “I don’t think he’ll be able to tell me the truth,” she replied quietly. Her face was set in stone. Rigsby wondered if Jane had been looking back at her. He doubted it.

He coughed uncomfortably. “I don’t…” He looked at the door from the corner of his eye. “I’m not comfortable… asking him,” Rigsby admitted. “If you can’t, then I can, but Jane—he’ll pick up on it,” he said to Cho.

“And read it wrong,” Cho added, his frown deepening at the corners. “I can do the interview,” he decided. He looked in and hesitated. “Give me a minute first,” he requested, walking to the vending machine. Cho paid with quarters and selected a bottle of water. The noise filled the empty hallway.

Rigsby went to the cheap plastic seating across from the door. He watched as Lisbon took a shuddering breath, and opened the door. She closed it softly behind her.

 

***

“Jane,” Lisbon said quietly, calling his attention away from the walls. She waited a few seconds, but he didn’t respond, just kept staring through her.

“You…” she began awkwardly, unsure. “We’re going to have to interview you now,” she continued. “Cho will do it, and it will be recorded so that you only have to do it once.”

Jane nodded slowly, seeming dazed. Lisbon wondered if it was really the best time for this. “If you want to delay and do this at some other time, that’s fine—”

“No,” he cut her off, his eyes meeting hers for a second before darting away. “You need the information as soon as possible.” He twisted the sheets between his fingers. “Who knows?” he laughed breathily, “I might forget things.”

The thin blue sheets slipped down his chest, gathering at his waist. He looked far too thin and small with the patient gown draping over his body. Lisbon knew it was a side effect of the circumstances and her mind was playing tricks on her, but she resolved to feed him when he got out of the hospital.

Lisbon frowned. “An agent will be stationed with you at all times while you’re in the hospital. The team has volunteered to take the majority of the shifts.” She glared fiercely at the wall. “If you need anything—” she broke off, hoping he would understand that he could just ask her and she would do any fucking thing he wanted.

Her nails dug into her palms, clawing herself discretely. They had known—Jane wasn’t just the department’s pet psychic, he was fucking bait. The subtle truth no one said anything about, but everyone, including Jane, knew.

“Stop blaming yourself, Teresa,” Jane murmured quietly, the weight of command behind his voice.

She ignored it, because she always ignored it.

“You couldn’t have stopped him. And if these unfortunate events lead to his capture then I do not regret them.” His face twitched into a grimace for a fleeting second before he admitted softly, “I’d walk back into his arms if it would end this.”

His eyes met hers and they were impossibly dark. Lisbon wanted to scream at him until he understood that people cared about him, and he didn’t need to die to justify living. Instead she sighed and set up the recorder on his bedside table. “This will be used in the case file, unless you have any objections.”

“No, none,” he said, pulling at the IV line gingerly.

“Jane, stop playing with that,” Lisbon reprimanded him, not looking up from the video camera. He stopped and she could tell he was amused. She adjusted the tripod legs again and aimed the lens at Jane. She turned it on for a second, testing it.

Jane began to speak, but restrained himself when he saw that the camera was on. Lisbon looked at him in concern, turning the camera off.

A soft knock rattled the blinds on the door, drawing both their attentions. Cho walked in, two water bottles dangling from his hands. He nodded in acknowledgement. “You ready for me in here?”

“Yeah,” Lisbon confirmed. She leaned over to pull the sheets up, tucking him in. “I’ll be back afterward. I have first shift,” she explained.

“Okay,” Jane replied. He was smiling when she looked back.

 

 

Cho arranged the water bottles on the table, sliding one forward for Jane. It took him a few moments to meet Jane’s eyes. He shifted in the uncomfortable chair.

Jane reached for the water bottle, moving his arms as little as possible. He didn’t grab it, instead dragging it toward him until it fell onto the bed covers. His hands were shaking as he twisted the lid off, taking a quick drink before putting the cap back on and dropping it onto the sheets.

“You don’t have to do this right now,” Cho said. It’s an offer more than it’s a statement.

Drops of condensation from the bottle darkened the sheets, similar to the thin lines on the top pillow. Jane’s hair was drying in fluffy curls, a fuzzy halo around his head. Jane must use some kind of hair products for his usual style; the untidy mop of blond curls he sported right now was much softer looking.

“It needs to be done,” Jane replied.

“Eventually,” Cho told him. “If you want to delay, that’s fine.”

“We interview people as close to the incident as possible, so that they don’t forget things,” Jane said, watching him intently. “You told me that.”

“That’s true,” Cho admitted.

“Yet both you and Lisbon have told me that it’s perfectly okay to wait,” Jane said. He drank from the bottle, and then set it back onto the sheets.

Cho could see the wheels turning in his head.

“Are you trying to protect me, yourself, or Red John?” Jane asked him, his eyes unfocused. He ran his fingers along the bandages on his wrists.

Cho hesitated. “You and myself,” he acknowledged. “You want to do this now, then?”

“Yes,” Jane said.

Cho nodded once and turned on the video camera. “Interview of Patrick Jane, regarding the Red John case, September 18, 2009,” Cho began, grabbing his water bottle and taking a drink.

Jane looked at the camera and Cho wondered if it made him uncomfortable.

“What did he look like?” Cho asked.

“He was at least six feet, probably over.” Jane licked his lips. “White skin, dark hair. His teeth were crooked, the front tooth on his left looked like it was pushed in. He had a tattoo of a snake on his back—red, white and black. It was small, and curled up in his lower back.” He shifted restlessly, a faint expression of discomfort crossing his face. “He was wearing a ski mask.”

“Anything else you remember? Age? Weight?” Cho prompted Jane, keeping his body language purposely relaxed.

“I think…” Jane muttered distractedly, “I think he’s older than me. Maybe thirty-five, forty-five at the most. He was normal weight, not really fit, not fat. He had a tan, and a break in the tan on his ring finger.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“One on his left hip. A mole. There might have been another on the back of his neck.”

“Okay, that’s good. Do you remember anything else about his appearance?”

“His hands were rough, he had bony knuckles and clammy hands. Thin lips, deep set eyes. He’s probably fairly attractive. Under the mask he had a rectangular face, square jaw. Probably a strong brow.” Jane took a drink, looking away from Cho.

“He—I think…” he trailed off, sending a quick glance at Cho. “He had scars. On his back, and on his stomach. A light one that crossed the right side of his upper lip.”

“What kind of scars?” Cho asked. “Burns? Knife?”

“They were straight—long, went across his back.”

“Whip or cane?” Cho suggested.

“Maybe.” Jane shrugged. He winced, the collar of the patient gown slipping to show taped-on bandages over his shoulder.

“Okay,” Cho mumbled, tapping his fingers against the armrest. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped. “Did you notice anything about his speech?”

“He was irritated. Enjoying himself, but less than he’d anticipated, I think,” Jane muttered quietly, a pale flush rising on his cheeks. “He jumped from topic to topic a lot. He was either American, or faking the accent well. He spoke clearly, no slur, or stutter.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“Not about his voice,” Jane replied, a flash of a smile crossing his face. It fell away as quickly as it came.

“All right.” Cho took a sip of water. “Did you have any indication that Red John was following you in the days preceding the event?”

“Ah…” Jane paled abruptly, looking at Cho with wide eyes. “Do you think he was?” he asked anxiously, before shaking his head. “No, of course he must have been,” he corrected himself brusquely, a dark frown creasing his face.

“He might not have been,” Cho offered him. “It may have been an attack of opportunity.”

“No—I’m fairly certain that he was,” Jane countered grimly. “I thought I was imagining things—”

Cho heard the cut off ‘again’ as clearly as if Jane had actually said it.

“—But things in my kitchen were changing positions.” Jane looked at the camera from the corner of his eye. He calmed. “The salt is on the left and the pepper is on the right, I always leave them like that. Yesterday they were reversed. One of my apples was missing. I thought I had eaten it and forgotten. Little things like that.”

“Did you see anyone following you at any point?” Cho asked, making a note to send someone over to Jane’s house to check for evidence. Red John might have left some trace of himself in his stalking, if not in his attack.

“If he did, it was very discrete. But why would he need to? I’m either at the office, my home, or somewhere on a case,” Jane pointed out.

“Fair enough,” Cho acknowledged. “Where were you when Red John abducted you?”

Jane froze for a moment. Cho wondered, belatedly, if he should have eased into it more. “I was in the living room—I didn’t… I didn’t see or hear anything. Suddenly there was a man behind me holding a cloth over my face. I became dizzy and then passed out.”

“The man was Red John?”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “Our acquaintance was fleeting, but there were no indications that he wasn’t.”

Cho nodded, and drank from the water bottle. Jane mimicked him, his hands shaking, sloshing the water against the sides of the bottle. “Did you see his vehicle?”

“No. I didn’t wake up until I was chained to the pipes in that room.” Jane ran his thumb over the ridges on the bottle cap. On the end of each swipe, his nail rasped over the last few lines.

“Do you know what time he took you?” Cho flushed faintly at Jane’s faintly incredulous expression, cursing the vagueness of his wording. He felt like he was in a minefield, waiting for Jane to explode.

“Probably eight in the morning, or there about,” Jane said with a faint smile at Cho’s discomfort. “I was almost out the door.”

“Okay. Once you woke up in the basement, what happened?”

Jane paused, looking at the camera uneasily. “He—” Jane stopped and swallowed.

Cho waited, giving Jane a silence to fill.

“He put the gag in my mouth,” Jane began. “He bit me. Then he finished stripping me.” Jane grew pale as he spoke, looking past Cho to the wall. “I couldn’t—he cut me.”

Cho let out a long breath, quelling the anger that threatened to rise. Jane mimicked him, meeting his eyes for a moment as he did so.

“He—ah,” Jane interrupted himself. He paused, breathing slowly. “He put the knife inside me,” Jane continued, his voice empty. “His fingers, too.”

Cho desperately wanted to end the interview, mostly for his own sake. The knowledge crawled in his mind, a shambling horror that consumed whatever thoughts wandered near it. He resisted the urge to stop Jane, allowing him to finish.

“He raped me,” Jane said, his emotionless mask shaking on the word ‘rape’ before reforming like solid glass. “And then he poured bleach on me.” He opened the bottle of water and took a sip. “I passed out and then woke up some time later. At that point, Red John had left.”

The silence stretched. Jane didn’t appear to have anything to add.

“Did Red John say anything to you?”

“Yes,” Jane murmured, his body taking on a certain lassitude. The drugs must have begun to work, Cho decided. “He said—” Jane swallowed and stopped, tension rising again.

“He said?” Cho repeated back, prompting Jane.

“He—” Jane cut off again, looking away. He ran his hand over his face, rubbing at the corners of his mouth. He grimaced, and licked his lips quickly. “Cho,” he said pleadingly.

Cho nodded, glancing at the camera before changing the subject. “Was there anyone else in the room?”

“No.” Jane answered quickly

“How long were you awake before Agent Rigsby found you?”

“Thirty, forty minutes?” Jane suggested, obviously uncertain. “I’m not sure.”

“How long was Red John with you?”

“Less than an hour.”

Cho nodded an answer, taking a drink. “What kind of knife did he use?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Did he leave at any point?”

“No, not until the end.”

Jane leaned back, eyes drifting shut. He looked exhausted, and Cho mentally revised the list of questions he had left.

“Jane, was there any indication that he would try this again?” Cho asked, making eye contact.

Jane blinked slowly. “Maybe.” Jane seemed horribly calm at the idea and Cho made a mental note to never let Jane go unsupervised again.

Cho turned the camera off. “Jane, has this ever happened before?”

Jane trembled for a second, the heart rate monitor accelerating. “I’m not sure,” he replied uncertainly. “He—I’m not sure.”

Lisbon tapped on the window, and Cho held up his hand, asking her to wait a second. “Have you ever been assaulted before?”

“No—there was one time, but it wasn’t him,” Jane muttered. His lips twisted into a grimace of a smile, “It wasn’t like this,” he reassured Cho, which didn’t do a thing to reassure him. “It was a husband who was angry because I told his wife he was cheating on her.”

“What was his name?” Cho asked, because slim leads were better than none.

“He was six foot eight, black, and a former football player for the San Diego Chargers. He’s also dead.” Jane hid a wince as he settled into the sheets. “He wasn’t Red John.”

“Then what did you mean when you said you weren’t sure?” Cho asked, rescuing Jane’s water bottle from falling off the bed.

Jane frowned, gears in his head churning. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I feel a certain déjà vu, but I can’t remember why.”

Cho nodded, writing a quick note about it in his notebook. “Is there anything else?” he asked Jane over the sound of Lisbon knocking.

“No. Not that I can think of.” Jane shifted restlessly, sparing a smile for Lisbon as she came in.


	4. Chapter 4

“Everything went all right?” Lisbon asked Cho, holding the door open for him. He murmured an affirmative, packing the video camera into its case.

“I’ll have it on Bosco’s desk by morning, Boss,” Cho told her quietly, sliding the camera strap over his shoulder.  
She nodded and Cho left, the blinds on the door rattling softly as he closed it. Lisbon returned to Jane, sitting in the recently vacated seat.

“So you’re going to be watching me sleep?” Jane asked, a joke hiding his very real discomfort. He curled awkwardly on his side, facing Lisbon, facing the door.

Lisbon watched him for a moment. “I was actually going to read my book,” she answered, holding up the trashy romance novel she had bought in the hotel gift shop. It was by one of Jane’s favorite authors, and she had bought it for him, mostly.

If he didn’t bite, she was going to read it. Not because she liked the novels (she only read them out of boredom) but because she had spent ten fifty on it.

Lisbon looked at the book-cover. A half-naked man in a kilt leered back at her. She had to wonder why Jane liked the series. She had read all twelve of the Scottish Warlords in Thrall, a few of them more than once, and there was honestly very little to recommend them.

“Is that the new Destiny Le Fey?” Jane looked interested.

“Yes, just released last week. The Scottish Stallion,” Lisbon confirmed. She pretended to be deep in thought. “I suppose I could loan it to you, if you wanted to read it.”

Jane reached out, his entire arm shaking. He paled at the movement, dropping his arm to the bed. “I don’t suppose I have anything better to do,” he announced dramatically, covering his wince.

Lisbon rolled her eyes and allowed him to pretend that she didn’t know about the second ‘secret’ library hidden under the couch. “Then I guess I should lend it to you,” she replied, sliding the book under his hand.

Jane gave her a smile, and flipped it open to the first page.

Lisbon relaxed into the uncomfortable metal chair, watching the hallway through the window. Jane was tired, and looked like he was going to fall asleep at any moment. She could steal The Scottish Stallion after he dozed off.

The hallway was nearly empty, only the occasional nurse wandering by. Dusk dimmed the light coming in from the window. Lisbon watched Jane from the corner of her eye, knowing he could feel the weight of her gaze. He relaxed into the thin mattress, his eyes blinking ever more slowly. Jane flipped through a few more pages before the book slipped from his fingers onto the sheets.

Lisbon waited a few moments, then slid the book out from under his hands. Jane was dead asleep. She nodded, once, in a kind of self confirmation. He hadn’t been sleeping well recently, even before... Lisbon let out a quiet sigh and slouched back, crossing her legs. She cracked the book open and began to read.

Two of Lisbon’s six hour shift went by in pleasant silence, filled only by the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor and the occasional soft snore from Jane. She was half-way through the manly exploits of Clive McClivian and his harem of highly willing women when the nurse came through the door. Lisbon slipped a bookmark in to mark her page and set the book down.

The nurse’s rubber shoes squeaked on the laminate floors. She gave Lisbon a quick nod, and pulled the chart from the end of Jane’s bed, looking it over.

Lisbon returned the nod belatedly. She uncrossed her legs, and set her feet against the floor. Jane had not woken, but that was unsurprising. Jane slept like a rock once he fell asleep. It was getting to that point that held difficulty.

The nurse returned the clipboard to the bed rail with a soft click of metal on metal. She approached the side of the bed, cup of pills in hand. Lisbon tensed slightly, half-rising to her feet. The nurse leaned over Jane, her hand outstretched over Jane’s shoulder.

Jane woke up, twisting out from under the nurse’s hand, a surprised noise of distress escaping his lips.  
Lisbon lunged across the room, pinning the nurse against the wall, the dull thud of her head hitting the wall oddly satisfying.

“Lisbon—Teresa!” Jane shouted, trying to get her attention. His voice sounded tinny.

Lisbon shrugged her shoulder to show that she had heard. She relaxed her hold on the nurse, suddenly realizing that the woman—girl, really, was crying, and begging her to let her go.

“Teresa, she’s just a nurse,” Jane said calmly, in the voice he used to hypnotize, to talk people down. “See? Purple crocs with vomit splatter on them, scrubs, six suckers in her pocket.”

Lisbon heard Jane sitting up in the bed, the rustling of the sheets loud in the sudden silence.

“She’s just a nurse, Teresa,” Jane told her reasonably. He was calmer than she was, and there was something very wrong about that. Lisbon could hear the uneasiness in his voice, the confusion. It hid beneath the soothing façade, and guilt for putting it there nearly overwhelmed her.

Lisbon stumbled back from the nurse, releasing her. The pills were scattered on the floor and one crunched under her foot.

“Honey, are you okay?” Jane asked the nurse as soon as Lisbon released her, his voice descending into a soft croon. He sent a warning look toward Lisbon. She backed up toward the door, appalled with herself. Her hands felt cold as she contemplated the consequences of her actions. Lisbon would be on suspension, under review, marks on her record. Hell, the nurse could sue.

“Honey, why don’t you sit down?” Jane murmured, gesturing toward the chair Lisbon had leapt out of. The nurse choked back sobs and obeyed, sitting. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice so full of sincere good will that even Lisbon believed him.

“Sam Bernard,” she replied, looking over her hands to Jane, red-rimmed eyes peeking out.

Jane smiled at her, and Lisbon could see the startled pleasure in Sam’s face. Her choked gasps slowed, and she wiped at her eyes, clearing them of tears. Lisbon was invisible.

“Hello Sam,” Jane said. He smiled again. “It’s good to meet you.” The smile drifted off his face, and he grew serious and a little sad. “Are you okay?” he asked her, concerned and sympathetic.

Sam sat up straighter, rubbing her sleeve over her blotchy face. “I—” she glanced over toward Lisbon and muffled a sob with her hands, crumpling in on herself.

“Okay, Sam, it’s okay,” Jane soothed her, reaching out to grip one of her hands. “I need you to relax, can you do that for me?” he asked her, holding her hand down, running his thumb gently over her wrist. “Just relax, you’re safe now.”  
She reached out to grab his hand, clutching it in a white knuckled grip. Lisbon caught the grimace that crossed his face, and nearly started forward again. Jane glanced toward her, warning clear in his eyes.

“Sam, you should calm down,” he said quietly, voice pitched low enough that she would have to quit sobbing to hear him. “You’re going to be fine, because everything is alright now. You are safe now, you can relax, just like you’re going to sleep.”

Sam stopped crying, and just blinked at Jane. Lisbon calmed. Sam was under. Jane would take care of things. Lisbon leaned into the wall, her knees suddenly weak.

“Yes Sam, everything is fine,” Jane asserted, watching the nurse’s eyes. He waited a beat, then asked, “Are you safe now, Sam?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Yes.”

“Good, that’s great.” The tension in his arms disappeared and he rewarded her with a smile.  
She smiled back.

“Now Sam, I’ve got a problem,” Jane said earnestly. He wrapped his other hand around hers. “My friend Teresa is worried about you. You tripped over your shoes and she caught you by the wrist, remember?”

Sam nodded, staring into Jane’s eyes.

“She’s worried that she hurt you.” Jane gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand. “But she didn’t hurt you, did she?” he asked Sam softly, watching her intently.

“No, I’m fine,” Sam replied, smiling at Lisbon. Her eyes were blank—empty. Lisbon shivered in an appalled sort of horror. No matter how many times she saw Jane hypnotize people, she never got over the look in their eyes. Completely aware, but blindly accepting of whatever he said. It frightened her.

“Oh good!” Jane praised her. He gave her hands an affectionate stroke, drawing a dazed blink. “So you remember, right? You tripped and Lisbon caught you. You were surprised and started to cry, which scared Teresa, right?” Jane told her.

Sam smiled and wiped away her tears, releasing Jane’s hands. She blushed. “I’m sorry I was so rude, ma’am,” Sam said to Lisbon. “You were only trying to help.”

“It’s okay.” Lisbon forced the words past the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry I—scared you.”

“That’s great.” Jane drew her attention back to him. “You’ve made Teresa feel so much better.”

Jane struggled into a sitting position. “Okay Sam, you’ve been great,” he told her affectionately. “I think you’re feeling much better now. As a matter of fact, you’re feeling so much better that you are going have a fantastic day.

Everything’s going to go right for you.” Jane took a breath. “When I touch your arm, you’re going to wake up and do whatever you came in here to do, okay?”

“Okay,” she repeated peacefully.

Jane reached up and tapped her arm.

Sam rose to her feet, offering them a shy smile. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I spilled your pills.” She hesitated, looking at Lisbon for a moment, as if she remembered. She shook her head. “I’ll be back with a new set.”

Sam left.

“Lisbon, care to explain?” Jane asked in confusion. He twisted so he was lying on the bed again, curled up on his side.

“I don’t know,” Lisbon replied, walking to the chair. She gripped the edge of it, grounding herself in the cool metal.

Jane hesitated. “Don’t do it again, okay?”

The first things she noticed were his wrists. They were encased in navy blue splints, white bandages peeking out from underneath them. Further up his arm, an IV pierced his skin. The hospital gown reached just above his elbow and the short stretch of exposed skin was pale.

Cho smiled at the plant in her hands as he left, leaving her to guard duty.

Jane stared into the corner, not noticing her. Grace hesitated, but walked into the room anyway.

She put the jade plant on the window sill. The movement made a soft clicking sound that drew his attention away from the wall.

He looked at her curiously, a welcome change from the completely blank look before. “A plant?” he asked, more quietly than usual.

“A jade plant,” Grace confirmed, arranging it so it could soak up the most sunlight. “They’re succulents, and really hard to kill,” she told him, giving the pot an affectionate pat.

“How thoughtful of you,” Jane said, a slow smile working its way out. He looked at the jade plant. “You know I kill plants,” he muttered softly, the smile still ghosting around the corners of his lips.

“Yes,” she told him, rolling her eyes. “I do know. That’s why I’m not giving it to you.”

He looked startled and a little amused. “You aren’t?”

“No. It’s my plant,” Grace said, sitting down in the chair beside his bed. As she settled into it she swore she smelled Cho’s cologne. He used a very unusual scent, something she’d never been able to identify. “I brought it so you could look at it, but if you so much as try to water it.” She shook her finger at him and then paused, stumped. “I’ll… ”

“Make my life into a horrible mockery of its former self?” Jane suggested, but his voice was far too bitter. She saw the flicker of his eyes as he realized that he’d said more than he’d intended.

“No,” Grace decided, distracting him as best she could. She pulled her purse from under the chair and opened it. “I won’t bake you cookies when you get out of the hospital.” She pulled out a thermos. “And I won’t give you the Earl Grey I smuggled in,” she teased him, shaking the thermos to make it slosh. “I’ll have to drink it all,” she said, putting it on the bedside table so she could fish two travelling mugs out of her purse.

“You don’t even like Earl Grey,” Jane protested, shifting up against the pillows so he could watch her better. Grace didn’t miss the way he winced at the movement. “Did you bring honey?” he asked, leaning over to look in her purse.  
“Yes I brought honey,” Grace told him, pulling a plastic beehive out of the depths of her purse. “And I brought green tea for myself. None of that Earl Grey nonsense for me,” she declared, taking out another thermos.

“So you never intended to cut me off from tea to ensure my good behavior in regards to the plant?” Jane asked, wiggling his eyebrows at her. He reached out to grab the silver thermos and slipped, falling against the metal bed rails. He gasped quietly, shoulders shaking as he tried to pull himself back up.

Grace froze, then put the green thermos on the side table. She pushed him back up onto the bed and looked away. “I could have poured it down the sink,” she told him, talking too fast but unable to slow down. “It’s double Bergamot,” she added, reaching out to pour him a mug.

“Double Bergamot?” he asked, voice shaking. “Sacrilege.” Jane settled back against the thin pillows and watched her pour the tea.

Grace added two dollops (Jane assured her that it was a very technical term) of honey, mixed it with the coffee stirrer she’d stolen from the nurses’ break room, and then screwed on the lid. She made as if to hand it to Jane and then paused, looking at him carefully. “Have I secured your promise to not touch my jade plant?” she asked him, holding the tea hostage.

“I suppose I simply have to accept your terms,” Jane agreed, looking at the tea longingly. “I shall not attempt to water, touch, or otherwise interfere with your plant.”

Grace smiled in delight and handed him the travel mug.

“Hmmmm…” Jane sipped thoughtfully.

Grace rolled her eyes, and drank from her cup. “It meets your approval?” she inquired.

“Well, yes,” Jane said, a frown creasing his face. “Was there no milk?” he asked.

“I wasn’t about to smuggle milk into a hospital,” Grace replied. “It might go bad.”

“The water is still just this side of boiling. In the time you took to get from your house to here, milk couldn’t possibly have gone bad,” Jane argued, drinking again, both hands curling around the mug. His arms had stopped twitching, Grace noted in approval.

“Ah, that would be true, but by the time I got here, the water had cooled,” Grace replied. She smiled over the rim of the cup. Hook baited.

“Hmmmm…” Jane hummed in sudden interest. “Then you must have heated it up here.”

“True,” Grace confirmed, keeping her face blank for Jane. Bait taken.

“Didn’t the nurse’s lounge have milk?” Jane asked after a moment.

“I couldn’t possibly take their milk,” Grace said firmly, doing her best to impart social skills on Jane.

“But you took their tea,” Jane replied, watching her intently. Grace’s lips twitched as she fought to keep from giggling. “The green tea was Lipton. You only buy Stash.” He leaned over a little and then nodded. “And there were two packages of Earl Grey in your purse.”

Grace smiled to let him know that he was right. Jane grinned back at her, the earlier dissonance gone.

“But you should have brought milk,” Jane frowned at the plastic mug. “You were at home three hours ago. It wouldn’t have gone bad in three hours.”

“Three hours in my car, Jane,” Grace retorted, slightly appalled. “It would have rotted!”

“It would have been fine,” Jane insisted, “Milk can be at room temperature for hours before it goes bad.”

“No it can’t.” Grace shook her head. “It goes bad the instant it hits room temperature.”

Jane raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t about to feed you bad milk,” she protested. His eyebrow remained up. “I wasn’t!”

Jane sighed in disappointment and looked at his tea sadly. He sipped at it delicately, his eyebrows curving down in an expression of deep sorrow.

“I’ll bring milk next time,” Grace promised, fighting the urge to hug him.

He smiled brilliantly. “Excellent!” he said cheerfully. “Oh, and next time you go back to the office, could you bring me my client list?” he tacked it on, like she wasn’t supposed to notice.

“Why? Is it related to the case?” she asked, leaning in. Jane tensed subtly at her movement, but she ignored it because she was pretty sure he was faking.

“Nostalgia,” Jane claimed, lying through his teeth. He sipped his tea innocently.

Grace tapped the metal armrest restlessly. “Jane,” she warned him.

“What?” he asked, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. Jane put the mug on the side table, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

Jane was lying to her. But lying meant it was important to the Red John case. Grace stared at Jane, drinking her tea. There is no one out there more likely to catch Red John. She believed that. But Jane wasn’t in the best condition right now. Should she aid him?

“Will you, or won’t you?” Jane asked, the cool undertone of his anger rising. She had only a few seconds before he would lash out at her.

Grace murmured a curse under her breath. Either way, the issue was moot. Giving Jane access to his client list was not handing over evidence, it wouldn’t kill him, and he hated telling people about his hunches. “I suppose you would like a computer to view it on as well?” she asked.


	5. Chapter 5

Jane scrolled through the list again. He’d had over three thousand clients, once. Many had been single visits, come to confirm that yes, indeed, grandma was in heaven. Under two hundred had been men.

Rigsby shifted in the chair, and Jane knew that he was minutes away from asking what he was doing. Grace had brought in the laptop and another delivery of tea (this time with milk) ten minutes ago. She had threatened him with dire consequences if he broke it, so he assumed the machine was hers.

“Jane?” Rigsby sounded uncertain and Jane remembered being cold.

Rigsby had found him. Jane didn’t quite know how to deal with that. He didn’t think Rigsby knew either. Jane smiled, because that usually worked.

“Yes?” He didn’t look up from the screen, separating out all the males into a second document.

“What are you doing?”

“Just indulging in nostalgia,” Jane replied, glancing up briefly. Rigsby looked disappointed and Jane relented a little. “I had a thought. Red John’s voice was familiar.”

Rigsby leaned in, and Jane wished people would stop doing that. It was really very disconcerting. “You know who he is?”

“No, I just had an idea,” Jane denied. He shrugged half-heartedly. “I’ve done this before,” he admitted quietly. “I can’t shake the thought that I know him somehow.”

“That isn’t in the file,” Rigsby pointed out, the fainted tint of suspicion coloring his words.

“But it is in the interviews, if you check.” Jane sighed thoughtfully, eliminating the men he knew didn’t fit. Phil Stevens wasn’t an inch over five two, Jamal Jones was black, Kyle Mack was a natural blond. “They refused to include it in the official profile because the state psychologist decided that it was a case of me attributing meaning or some such.”

“And no one ever checked into it?” Rigsby asked, sounding faintly appalled. “Didn’t they—you’re never wrong! Why wouldn’t they believe you?”

“Actually, I often am.” Jane frowned thoughtfully before removing Charles Kingston. He was at least decade too old. “I just don’t tell people my hunches until I’m certain of them.” He focused on the computer. “And there were… other factors at the time.”

He saw Rigsby nodding out of the corner of his eye, and dearly hoped that Rigsby thought the ‘other factors’ were dealing with the death of his family rather than being confined to a mental ward. Not that the second was unconnected to the first, but Jane couldn’t have his judgment doubted. “It’s unlikely that this will pan out,” he offered, removing Vance Polanski from the list. Too normal. “I’ve done it before, a couple of times, and I have more information now, but no one stands out.”

“Did you give the list to the investigators, at least?”

“Yes.” Jane gave Rigsby a tired look. “I told them until I was blue in the face, but they ignored me.” A harsh chuckle slipped from his lips, and he stifled it. “Policemen, they’re all the same. Unreliable witness, they said.” Jane put his tea down, one hand tangling absentmindedly into the sheets. “I brought it up, and Lisbon investigated. She didn’t find anything.” She didn’t trust his judgment when it came to Red John.

Jane deleted half a dozen names, all too old, too dead, or just not right at all.

“Do you need help?” Rigsby asked, and Jane was touched by his earnestness, his desire to do the right thing.

“No. It’s something of a one man job right now.” He hesitated before deleting Percy Radcliff. “But thank you,” Jane said, and the uncomfortable weight in his chest eased.

Rigsby relaxed, a subtle tension leaving him.

A fleeting smile crossed Jane’s face. Chances are they’ll never talk about it. Thank goodness.

A comfortable silence descended, broken only by the clinking of keys and the rustle of paper on paper.

“You can go get lunch,” Jane told Rigsby absently, sometime later. The list was down to twenty four names.

“No, I’m good,” Rigsby sighed regretfully.

Jane glanced up, frowning. “You’re hungry. Go eat.”

“No. Cho will take over for me in an hour.”

“I don’t need to be babysat twenty-four seven,” Jane pointed out reasonably. “You’re hungry, and no one will try to kill me in the twenty minutes it takes you to get food. Go.”

“I can’t. I’m on duty,” Rigsby explained. He smiled briefly. “If I left you alone and Lisbon found out, I’d work desk duty for the next ten years. I can wait an hour against that threat.”

Jane shrugged, stretching the bite on his shoulder. It ached. He stilled and glanced at the clock. Only minutes to go before a nurse brought a tiny plastic cup filled with painkillers, antibiotics, and other goodies. “Bathroom break?” he suggested weakly, saving the list he had made. Twenty-four superstitious men with cruel streaks, none of whom stood out as anything more than an asshole. Perhaps with more research…

The sound of rubber crocs squeaking against linoleum echoed under the door. They were accompanied by the soft tread of expensive men’s shoes, a faintly lumbering gait that suggested advanced middle age. Jane paused, watching the expansive glass window that allowed passersby to look at him.

“Or you could stay,” he allowed as an older man in a lab coat came into view, flirting with the young Sam Bernard. Jane fidgeted with the edge of the sheet that covered him, and then smoothed it, forcing his hands to stay still and neutral, flat on the bed.

Rigsby glanced at the window and then returned to his book, nodding.

Jane calmed, breathing slowing. He pretended to startle when they opened the door, because people loved it when he fulfilled their expectations. Sam looked chokingly empathetic; it took only the faintest flicker of her eyes for Jane to realize that she had been abused as he had. Guilt filled him for lying with his reactions and Jane looked away, closing the laptop.

“I have your pills, Mr. Jane.” She spoke soothingly, but not patronizingly, and Jane appreciated the difference for once. Sam’s smile was as practiced as his own, and it had a certain polished look that shouted experience. For her, it hadn’t been just once.

Jane smiled for her and took the pills peacefully, not raising the fuss he had intended. She blushed, uncomfortable, so his smile faded, allowing her to see the discomfort hidden underneath. That calmed her, gave her back the basis of her empathy and Sam smiled, taking back the tiny pill cup as he drank down the last of the water in the slightly larger cup. When he was done, she took that cup too and left, skirting around Rigsby on her way to the door.

“Would you wait outside?” The doctor asked Rigsby once Sam had closed the door behind her.

Jane shook his head firmly and replied for Rigsby, his voice modulated, calm and in control, “I’d prefer it if Rigsby stayed.” Rigsby looked up from his book, alert and paying attention but graciously pretending not to.

The doctor gave the two of them a strange look, and something ugly squirmed in Jane’s belly when he realized that the man—Jane squinted quickly and read his name tag—Dr. Rogers thought they were lovers. A dull flush heated Jane’s cheeks and he looked away, unwilling and unable to explain why he wanted Rigsby to stay.

Dr. Rogers scribbled something on the clipboard at the foot of his bed, and then dropped it back onto the hook.

The clipboard swung from side to side, creaking. The doctor was talking again, but Jane couldn’t quite hear him over the screech of metal. It drew his attention, and the corners of his vision seemed to darken, the color of rust and dried blood rising hazily in the peripheral.

“…at least one more day. Afterward, you can go home. You should be on bed rest for at least a week. At the end of that week, we’ll have a follow up appointment scheduled.”

Jane came back to the stark white room slowly, the flicker of candlelight sliding away with the fading creak of the clipboard. Jane missed most of the speech, and he licked his suddenly dry lips.

“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Rogers asked, fidgeting with the cuffs of his lab coat. He was nervous, and the knowledge twisted into a miserable knot inside of Jane. Dr. Rogers was unsettled, anxious, uncertain, and vaguely derisive toward him. It was clear as day in the lines of his face, the drift of his gaze, the unnatural stiffness in his hands.

Jane swallowed the taste of vanilla. “No,” he replied, voice suddenly hushed and small. Ashamed.

The doctor nodded abruptly and then left, clicking the door shut behind him. He glanced through the glass, dissonance no longer hidden. The look on his face made Jane want to crawl under the sheets.

Rigsby cleared his throat, and peered over the edge of his book. “You okay?”

Jane nodded, and opened the laptop again. It took a few moments to load and Jane sighed. “How many—” he cut himself off. “Who knows?”

“About you being here, or why you’re here?” Rigsby answered with a question, pretending to be deeply involved in his book.

“Either. Both.”

“Most of CBI knows that you’re in the hospital because of Red John. The media hasn’t published anything yet, and it’s looking like they won’t. The only people who know any specifics are Lisbon, Cho, me, Minelli and Bosco’s team,” Rigsby tells him calmly, like he’s telling Jane that the weather looks like it’ll be nice this weekend. Jane appreciates his unruffled delivery. It makes the news less disappointing.

“Van Pelt doesn’t know?” Jane asked quietly, staring at the list of names again.

“She didn’t watch the tape of the interview,” Rigsby confirmed. He glanced up, and their eyes met for a second. “She’s probably guessed some of it though.”

“What does the CBI think?”

“I haven’t been in the office for the last three days,” Rigsby said, apologetically. “I can find out for you, so that you know.”

“I’d appreciated that,” Jane murmured politely, normally unused manners coming out to deal with his discomfort.

Twenty four names… perhaps...

“Can this thing connect to the internet?” Jane asked, drumming his fingers on the plastic casing.

Rigsby nodded. “If there’s an unsecured network in range.”

Jane paused and looked at the screen. “How can I tell if there’s an unsecured network in range?” he mimicked Rigsby’s words exactly because he didn’t have the faintest clue what Rigsby was talking about.

Rigsby set his paperback to the side and held out his hands for the computer. Jane tried to lift it, but his wrists weren’t quite up to the task yet. Rigsby leaned over and grabbed the laptop, pretending that he’d intended to do so all along. He tapped the mouse pad a few times, and then handed it back to Jane.

“You’re connected. Do you need anything else?”

Jane looked at the cup of tea he’d placed on the side table thoughtfully. Rigsby picked it up and handed it to him.

“Good?” Rigsby asked, tapping the spine of his book.

Jane nodded, sipping at the tea. He typed the first name into the search engine. Leonard de Mer.

“If you leave the list on the computer, Grace can research them for you.”

“She’s Grace now?” Jane hid his smile with the tea cup.

“Van Pelt then,” Rigsby corrected himself.

Jane sighed in disappointment. “No, I’d rather run through them first. Make sure they’re all still alive.”

* * *

“There’s been another murder.” Cho straightened the stack of books on the side table, organizing them as he avoided eye contact with Jane.

“Red John?” Jane asked, looking up from his book.

“Yes.”

Jane sighed, fingers tensing on the spine, nails whitening over the lurid picture on the cover. “When?”

“Last night.”

“I told you…” Jane avoided finishing the sentence.

“I know. We know. But you weren’t set to be released until today.” Cho frowned intently, finally looking at Jane. “Lisbon has arranged for protective custody. When you leave this afternoon, we will go to a location yet to be disclosed.”

A half smile crossed Jane’s lips. “You’re my protective custody?”

“We all are. Minelli has agreed to assign Major Crimes to your case. Rotating shifts, two of us on at all times.”

Jane glanced over at Van Pelt’s computer. “Will we be on the Red John case again?”

“No.”

Jane frowned. “What case…?”

“Protective detail. It’s not in Major Crimes preview, but Lisbon convinced Minelli that you would drive anyone else insane in a few hours.”

Jane hummed in contemplative interest. “Do I still have a job?”

“So far as I know.”

“Then we’ll still be going into the office? Working on other cases?”

“The details haven’t been decided.” Cho tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

Jane shifted restlessly. “Oh, you know. Work. Good for the soul.”

“Of course,” Cho replied dryly. “Bosco won’t let you see the files.”

“You never know,” Jane answered. “He could change his mind.”

Cho chuckled quietly and put the books down, arranged at tidy right angles to each other. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Absolutely,” Jane lied easily, smiling. “Couldn’t be better. Besides, if Red John’s decided to start killing again, I’d much rather be in a position to know about it.” Jane paused, looking at Cho. There was no way he could induce guilt, but a hint of second thoughts would satiate him nicely.

Cho frowned. “I don’t think that giving you the information last night would have helped anything.”

“It would have helped me,” Jane replied, prodding at Cho just a little bit. He set the book down.

“You would have escaped the hospital, hunted down the crime scene, and driven Bosco completely nuts.”

“Well yes. But I would have been safe.”

The humor fled from Cho’s face and he looked grim. “You are safe. We will not let him get you again.”

Jane didn’t reply.


End file.
